


old ghosts speak the loudest

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Hugs, John Reese Lives, M/M, Permanent Injury, Post-Episode: s05e13 Return 0, Pre-Slash, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: The mundane dreams were always the worst—like this one.Since the final showdown with Samaritan, Harold's been dreaming about John. Only he's not dreaming this time.
Relationships: Pre-Harold Finch/John Reese, past Harold Finch/Grace Hendricks
Comments: 14
Kudos: 102





	old ghosts speak the loudest

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Is it shippy? Is it gen? You decide.~~ On second thought, probably shippy.
> 
> Content Notes: Descriptions of gruesome nightmares, some including blood, and the finale Rooftop Incident™ left John with a permanent physical disability
> 
> And I lack the intestinal fortitude to go back and rewatch S5—possibly ever—so if anything is glaringly off on the canon compliance front (besides John's survival), sorry.

"Your eggs are getting cold, Finch."

Harold's heart and breath stuttered to a stop. His book nearly slipped from his grasp. But despite the painfully familiar voice and the sound of someone sliding into the booth across from him, he didn't dare look up.

Since the first time he'd slept after...that day, his mind had tormented him with countless different versions of this moment. They'd only gotten worse after he returned to New York. Ephemeral apparitions that passed through his fingers when he tried to touch. Battered skeletons clattering about, dry bones touching his skin before crumbling to splinters and dust. A very human man, filled with innumerable bullet holes, dripping more blood than a body could possibly contain, who smiled at him with red-stained teeth and adoration before vanishing in an explosive flash. Once, just a disembodied mouth, whispering his real name into his ear with the soft and rasping voice of a friend who'd never known it. All tearing at a part of him that refused to heal.

The specter spoke again, saying, "I've never been here before. It's new," and a cold, heavy sensation spread throughout Harold's limbs. He already knew what the ghost would say next. Sure enough... "What's good here?"

 _"What's good here?"_ It hit like a punch to the stomach. Harold recoiled, his eyes clenched shut. John had said that before. The mundane dreams were always the worst—like this one. He'd be doing something like sitting in a diner, reading a book, picking at breakfast—always eggs Benedict, _"Try the eggs Benedict, Mr. Reese. I've had them many times,"_ echoing in his head, so often he couldn't eat the dish anymore—and John would make some comment he'd made in life as Harold tried and failed to lose himself in his book, or John would thank him again like he'd somehow earned the gratitude, and—

Warm fingers brushed his hand. "Harold," John said, "it really is me."

"That's what you say every time, Mr. Reese." Harold's voice was shaking. So were his hands, as they clutched the book, wrinkling the pages. He set the abused tome aside and stared down at his scrambled eggs. Perhaps he should give up diners, too. Eggs Benedict, diners, breakfast. Donuts with his tea. Movie theaters. Libraries. Parks. New York. Everything that wasn't isolation and solitude. "So, do forgive me, please, but I can't...I _can't_..."

"It took me two years to get back on my feet well enough to go looking for you," John said, with gentleness, not the bitter anger Harold surely deserved. Two years. Had it really been so long since he'd gotten John killed? "Could you at least look at me for a second?"

Harold drew in a tremulous breath, considered the question, and decided. "No. No, I don't believe I can."

"Finch," John whispered. "Harold. Please."

It was the "please" that did him in. Harold dragged his gaze from the cooling mass of egg, and looked.

John's hair was pure silver now, his body thin and his face blade-sharp, his skin pale but healthy. Unfamiliar scars peered out from the opened collar of one of his favored white shirts, the most prominent a thick line down the center of his chest, like doctors had cracked it open. There was a gleaming wooden cane propped up beside him.

None of Harold's nightmares had concocted those details.

John smiled. "Hey, Harold. Been a while, hasn't it?"

Harold couldn't even hazard a guess for how long he sat there, silent, staring, _gaping_ in a manner that was utterly unbecoming of him—of anyone. Seconds, minutes, years? Good heavens, John was there, in front of him, alive.

Emotions he'd thought he'd become numbed to came crashing to the forefront of his whirling mind, colliding with one another, grief and pain and relief and happiness melding into something he could hardly name or contain. He covered his mouth, in case the ache building in his chest tried to escape as a truly undignified sob.

Was this how Grace had felt when he'd approached her that day, he wondered, this nigh on overwhelming sense of elation and devastation at the sight of a returned loved one's face? Did it feel so much like coming back to life to her, like a numb and blood-deprived limb regaining circulation and sensation, but on a grand scale?

Perhaps he could ask...but he hadn't spoken to her in months, not since the day he looked at her from across their kitchen table and realized how badly his presence, his pain, his secrecy were breaking her. The day he finally _saw_ the sadness in her eyes when she looked at him, the pity, the grief. The day he knew that his quiet happily-ever-after was, as he'd always suspected, a fiction.

She'd shown him nothing but kindness, had tried so very hard to help him, to make their relationship work, and it had done nothing to heal him and everything to hurt her. He needed to excise himself from her life and let her live. So he did.

 _"Thank you for saying goodbye this time,"_ she'd said, as he'd lingered at the door, suitcase and hat in hand. Then she'd kissed him chastely on the cheek, and it had almost been enough to undo him, to make him drop his luggage, submit to the selfish whims of his heart and say he'd decided to stay. But before he could make that mistake, she'd added, _"Sometimes things just don't work out, do they?"_ with unmistakable finality. Even if he'd wanted to give in, it was no longer an option.

She'd moved on since then, he'd learned recently, with a lovely man who treated her well. A fellow artist. The Machine said he kept nothing important secret from her, and that, although he was a widower, he was not as deeply mired in trauma and misery as Harold. Harold told himself that he was happy for her, that he was glad to have given her the closure she needed to find someone better, but if he was honest with himself? Well. That was an area of his life where he vastly preferred not to be honest with himself.

But _John_. Sometimes, it seemed, things _did_ work out. In a dream, John would have disappeared by now. But there he sat across from Harold, a tiny smile on his face, patiently waiting as Harold struggled to get himself back under control. He only spoke to order coffee when the waitress stopped by their table, then to thank her when she served it.

At last, Harold managed to say something, a fragile little, "How?"

"You'd have to ask your Machine," John replied, wrapping his hands around his cup. There were more new scars there, Harold noted, his stomach hollowing. Burn scars. Some of his fingers on his right hand were crooked, too, like they’d been broken, nearly crushed. The missile. They must have pulled him from the rubble. Good god. He hoped John had been unconscious for that. "A lot of it's kind of a blur."

"That sounds like the understatement of the century," Harold said. He felt somewhat foolish beneath his horror, like he was speaking to an empty table. Was he dreaming, or hallucinating? He _was_ recovering from a knife wound, after all, a deep gash to the side from yesterday's number. Was it infected? It throbbed, certainly, a thin, bright line of pain burning between back and belly whenever he let himself take note of it, but he didn't feel ill. Like retirement might be in order soon, yes, but not ill.

Everything seemed...normal. His body's old aches—much worse now than the last time he'd seen John, especially with winter in full swing—were a steady presence in his spine and his hip, his new pains just as concrete. His stomach felt full of his breakfast, albeit a little irritated by the acid from the orange juice, which he could still faintly taste on his tongue. The people around him were solid, not vague, the lettering on the menu was unwavering and clear. The world seemed to be operating on reality-logic, not the ever-shifting oddness of dream-logic.

All that was out of place was John.

Oh, goodness, _John_. The explanation that required the least amount of speculation was usually the correct one, but that explanation said that John was dead. Here he sat, though, as defiant of expectations as ever. _Alive_. Drinking coffee. Physically changed, but looking at Harold like nothing had changed at all.

 _Have you any idea what your death did to me?_ Harold wanted to demand, along with countless other agonizing questions. _Why did you wait so long to come back to me? Why didn't The Machine tell me about you? How are you here? How can you even stand to look at me?_ More. He asked none of them.

Instead, Harold said, barely audible, "I thought I'd never see you again."

"You almost didn't," John said. "I was more like Swiss cheese than a person for a long time." He let out a soft, awkward laugh. "My body's still pretty screwed up. But I'm getting better. And, uh, I've got this." John gestured toward the cane, then picked it up and showed it off to Harold. It looked like polished wood, but up close, the striations in the grain seemed artificial, the shine too bright. "Self defense cane," John elaborated. "Solid metal." Harold's eyes widened. "Packs a pretty mean punch, and I'm getting really good at using it."

Immediately, Harold could see how John would utilize it, with crystal clarity. "Oh dear lord, now you have yourself an excuse to carry a big metal stick with you everywhere, don't you?" he said, giving the cane the horrified stare it deserved. He knew John, and the sort of things that made John gleeful. This would be one of them.

John's chuckling confirmed his suspicions. After a moment, Harold laughed as well, though his own laughter was a frail little thing that could only be called laughter due to the lack of a better name.

"That _is_ a nice bonus." John spun the cane in his hand, eying it with a smug look. "You really should consider getting yourself one of these, Finch," he said, pointing the curved handle at Harold, before setting the cane aside. "Might come in handy."

Harold pursed his lips with distaste. "No, thank you." He wouldn't use mobility aids again until his body forced him to—a day he knew was coming, fast, unless he took his meddling Machine's near-constant barrage of advertisements for orthopedic surgeons to heart. But he wasn't there yet. And, if he had his way, he had carried his first and last weapon on that rooftop.

As usual, thinking of the rooftop came with a sharp pang of guilt in his already aching chest. Only, it was lessened this time by the presence of John across from him. Unless Harold's unconscious mind had become infinitely more creative, John was there.

"Anyway," John said, "I'd like to start helping again, if I can. I know I won't be able to do the same things I used to, and it'll probably drive me crazy, but...I liked having a purpose." More softly, he added, "I miss it."

Another upswell of emotion threatened to overwhelm him. Working the numbers with John again. Even if John could not reassume his old role of the Man in the Suit, he was nothing if not capable and competent. If anyone could find a way to compensate for new injuries and still save lives, it was John. A part of Harold wanted to say no, though, to keep John safely ensconced somewhere far away from trouble. To suggest the retirement he knew they both should take.

But he and John were very much alike, in many ways. Harold had felt restless without the numbers. Empty. Old ghosts always spoke the loudest when he had nothing to occupy him, their voices echoing in those empty spaces inside him. After returning to Grace, he'd learned quite quickly that he, like John, needed a purpose. Burying himself in repairing some of the damage he'd wrought with ICE-9 hadn't helped. He'd _needed_ to do more.

Telling John no might hurt him far more than it would help. And he didn't think he could deny John anything he wanted ever again.

"Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Reese," Harold said. "I'm certain there is still a place for you, and I would greatly enjoy wor—" His throat constricted, and he drew in a deep breath, then several more when the first proved ineffective. His voice came out weak, small when he spoke again. "Forgive me, John, but I'm afraid I don't quite know what to say or how to say it at this moment."

"I missed you, too, Harold." John reached across the table and took Harold's hand. His fingers were warm, his grip solid and strong. Real. Harold squeezed in return, and found himself holding a hand, not air or dusty bones.

Something inside Harold cracked, then knitted itself back together again. He'd lost so much. So many people who were dear to him were gone, but one of them was back. The one who'd given his life to save Harold's. The one he'd desperately tried to save. The one whose ghost had become the loudest, despite his quiet, raspy voice in life.

Two years. John had been dead for _two years_. And now, suddenly, he wasn't. There was no need to ask why it had taken so long for him to contact him, despite how much his brain wanted him to shout demands over it. Harold knew John well enough to know that John likely felt useless and broken and worthless for a very long time, and possibly still did. But he came back. That was the most important thing, was what mattered. John was _there_. He came back.

It turned out Harold didn't have the strength to maintain his composure after all. Considering the situation, however, he thought a few tears were certainly acceptable, no matter how much he loathed and tried to avoid these sorts of messy displays of emotion. He was not someone who _cried_ , but...goodness. Two years. Dear god. Two years of mourning, of regret, of missing too many people hit him all at once, hard, and he didn't have the will left to stop it.

"John, I am so incredibly sorry," he said, "for what happened. I—"

"Harold," John firmly said, "I'm not." Then John smiled— _smiled_ —perfect and unmistakable, even through the blur of Harold's tears. How could he do that? How could he still _smile_ at Harold, after everything? "I saved the world, Finch. Thanks to you. And I saved the person in it who was most important to me. You have no idea what that meant to me— _means_ to me. So, if I had a chance to do it all over again? I'd be the one on that rooftop every time."

Tears slid down Harold's cheeks. He tried to wipe them away with his hand. It proved inadequate, much like words.

"I tried to get to you," he managed, between shuddering breaths. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to, but I—"

"You were shot," John said. "Hit in the gut." John looked down at their joined hands, his expression softening further. "I still remember the first time I got shot in the gut. Some of the worst pain there is. And you went around like that all over the place, did all that stuff with a bullet in you, with you bleeding out."

Harold's eyebrows rose. He'd thought he'd done a better job of hiding his injuries—but, oh, of _course._ The Machine.

"Yeah, she told me about that later," John said, gesturing toward a nearby security camera, confirming Harold's suspicions. "Pretty badass, if you ask me. But I get why you didn't come that time. You were dying—almost dead, she said." His eyes met Harold's again, and he smiled slightly. "And I really didn't want you to come. I wanted you to live."

"And I wanted _you_ to live. Goodness, you'd been through so much. What I wanted more than anything was for you to be happy. For you to move on—to have the _chance_ to move on. To have a life." He paused, considering. "But I suppose our desires for each other were fundamentally incompatible that day, weren't they?"

"Maybe, maybe not. You wanted me to have a happy ending." John looked him in the eyes. "That _was_ my happy ending. That rooftop, going down saving the person I cared about the most? The person I loved?"

 _Loved?_ Trust Harold's feeble old heart to skip a beat at _that_. Another line of tears trickled inexorably down.

"That was a happy ending for me. That was the best death I could've asked for, and there is nothing you need to apologize to me for. But I'm back." John leaned forward, tightening his grip on Harold's hand. "Harold, I'm back. I promise. And I'm not planning on going anywhere again for a long, long time."

"See that you don't," Harold said, a smile of his own slipping through. "I am—goodness, excuse me." His voice had caught again, and he took a moment to pull out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes.

"Take your time."

It took much longer than usual for Harold to get control of himself. Once he regained his composure slightly, Harold continued, saying, "Mere words cannot describe how _happy_ I am to see you, and how intolerable the idea of losing you again is. So, if you don't mind, I would greatly appreciate it if you stayed alive this time."

"No promises," John said, "but I'll do my best."

Before Harold could come up with a response, he was interrupted by The Machine in his earpiece, a soft buzz and a tentative, _"Is this a bad time? I have a number for you."_

Giving his eyes what he hoped was one last swipe, he said, "That depends," and gestured toward his ear. John nodded. "Is Mr. Reese cleared for duty, or..."

 _"I have some ideas for bringing him back into the fold,"_ she said, _"albeit in a different capacity than before. But his medical records and my observations indicate that he is recovering as well as his injuries will allow, so if he wants to come back? Absolutely."_

"In that case..." He gave John a small smile. "I believe we have a new number. Would you care to join me, Mr. Reese?"

A grin spread across John's face, open and jubilant, and he reached for his cane. "Always."

Harold stared at him for a moment, in disbelief, in _awe_ of his very existence. "You're really here?" he asked, softly.

"Yeah," John said. "Unless we're both having one hell of a hallucination, pretty sure I'm here." After a beat, he added, "But I think we're needed somewhere else."

"Yes!" Harold said. "That we are."

They got up from their seats, both moving more slowly than they had the last time they'd shared a meal, both limping heavily, then they stood in front of each other, taking each other in. Or, Harold suspected, drinking John in would be more accurate. Every time his eyes traced over John, his heart skipped another beat, and his eyes stung again. There was a lightness building up inside him, a warmth, a vibrant sensation he hadn't experienced in far too many years.

After a few fleeting, hesitant attempts, he smiled, wide with tentative, honest joy. It felt utterly alien on his face, almost painful, but it made John's smile brighten, his eyes crinkle at their corners. "I am—" Harold's voice caught again. "—oh, dear. Words cannot express how _happy_ I am to see you."

"I think you used—what was it?—'inordinately' once," John said, hooking his cane over an arm with practiced ease, making Harold's heart clench. It _hurt_ to see John so badly wounded, no matter how well he was handling it. But John did not seem to blame Harold nearly as much as Harold did. He reached out, and gently cupped Harold's elbows in his palms, then slid his hands up Harold's arms. "That happy?"

Harold chuckled slightly. "Beyond it." All those times he'd looked at an open door and wished John or Nathan or Root would walk through it. All those times he'd seen something that he knew John would adore and started to pick up the phone. All those times he'd wished they'd hugged—god, why had he never hugged someone who was so dear to him? All the guilt. A new guilt would take its place soon, he knew, because Harold was something of an expert in self-flagellation, but it would come later. For now, it was overshadowed by sheer happiness, by the refilling of one of the echoing chasms in his heart. "I have missed you so very much, John."

"I've missed you, too, Harold." Then, unexpectedly—or perhaps not so much—he wrapped his arms around Harold and pulled him into that gentle, long overdue hug. Harold gave in to it instantly, embracing John, leaning into him, holding him much too close to be proper. John was too thin, but still strong, and it felt incredible to hold him, to be held by him. Even the gun he felt at John's hip didn't bother him nearly as much as it would have once.

"We should've done this a long time ago," John said, near his ear, and Harold thought he felt lips press briefly to the side of his head. No, _surely_ not—but what if he had? Wouldn't that be lovely?

"Yes," Harold said, tightening his grasp and answering his mind's own question at once. "Yes, we should have."

The warmth of John's body, the familiar smell of him, the realness of him sank deep into Harold's weary, aching soul, bringing immense solace and comfort. For a time, it didn't matter that they were in a busy diner, that there was a number waiting for their help, that there was an entire world that they'd already saved that was still in motion around them. Harold had John back, and he did not want to let go of him again.

After what must have been far too long but didn't feel like long enough, another customer cleared their throat, wanting to get around them. Harold tamped down his irritation and apologized, and with one last squeeze, John let him go, and they stepped aside. There was a softness in John's smile that Harold had rarely seen as he looked down at Harold, before it started to sparkle with undisguised glee and a hint of John's trademark mischief.

"Now," John said, "let's go save a life."


End file.
